The Little Things
by bluebiird
Summary: A collection of drabbles and one-shots that revolve around the domesticated lives of Count Blumiere and Lady Timpani from Super Paper Mario. Most take place after the end of the game in a more modern AU, save a few exceptions. Enjoy!
1. Peace

"I can't even begin to start on how terrible that movie was!"

Blumiere, who had been quietly reading his novel, lifted his gaze at the disturbance, a brow arched at his wife's sudden outburst.

"Firstly," she continued, pacing about the room in an angry fashion, "what kind of women uses heels— heels of all things!— to run? As fashionable as they are to wear, they are not ideal for running. It's possible, yes, but that doesn't mean people should do it! Do they even realize the effect this could have on others?! Honestly!"

And on and on Timpani went, passionately criticizing some movie she had watched earlier. Blumiere merely watches as she does so, lips curling with amusement. She was only rarely like this. Usually it'd be over something serious, say, an ignorant opinion of a more ignorant person, who prompts others to take in a reckless and an even more ignorant action that would affect either or both of them. That, and that one time where his boss had forced him to work overtime. Least to say, at the end of the conversation, he was relieved of a good portion of his work and had more free time to spend at home. Hence why he was able to read such an absorbing book today. That is, until his wife decided to barge into the house.

Seeing that he wouldn't be able to continue his reading for the day, he closed it with a soft _fwump_ , but not before he had a bookmark neatly placed inside. It's then placed onto the table besides him, set aside for later. His eyes were back on her again, watching, but not entirely listening. As this went on, an idea popped into his mind. A very, _very_ interesting idea that would stop her ranting.

A chuckle escaped him, and his wife's attention turned to the sound, surprised. But the second her eyes met his Timpani stopped dead in her tracks, for a dangerous gleam shone in his eyes. She took a moment to glare at him.

"Blumiere, don't you dare."

He rose out of his chair, grinning as she takes a step back from him.

"Blumiere." He took a step forward. She took one backwards.

"Stop it." Another step forward, another step back.

"I'm warning you mister!" One last step and her back was against the wall, a shadow looming over her form. A whine escapes her.

"Blumiere, I am a grown woman for Grambi's sake!"

"Are you absolutely certain?"

Her arms folded over her chest and she scoffs. "That shouldn't even be a question—"

A mix between a screech and a cry is suddenly torn from her throat as Blumiere sweeps Timpani off in one smooth move, plopping down on the couch next to him with her on his lap. She gave out another whine as she squirmed on top of him, trying to free herself from his grasp.

"Blumiere. Blumiere please."

He huffs. "No. If you're going to act childish, I might as well."

She pouted at his reply, brows furrowed as she glowered at him. He merely stares back, an amused smile playing on his face.

"Oh. What a childish expression."

She flared at that, eyes narrowed as her face flushes a brilliant shade of red. Despite her glare, he laughs, the sound vibrating throughout his chest with a low rumble. And, upon hearing such, her anger slowly faded away, glare easing as she begins to smile. Soon enough she's laughing with him, and it was almost as if she was never angry to begin with.


	2. Mornings

Nimble fingers weave through a mass of hair as the morning sun peers through the blinds to greet them, gentle and warm, pressing light kisses of warmth onto their skin. She breathes, the scent of the beginning day filling her with energy. Her eyes turn to him who was sleeping besides her, whose form which rose and fell in a steady rhythm. A smile tugs at her lips.

She loves this time of day.

She loves seeing him at her side, peacefully sleeping, his limbs entangled within the sheets she had dried the other day. She loves how she feels his arms wrapped around her when she wakes, how she could faintly feel his heartbeat at her back, beating, resonating within his chest. It soothes her. Reminds her that he's here, that they're here, together.

Her hand brushes stray a strand of hair to the side of his face. She's delicate in her touch, fingertips only briefly skimming over his forehead. He stirs, incoherent mumbles dropping from his lips, body shifting closer to her in his sleep. A chuckle escapes her, and she looks at him with warmth in her eyes.

She loves him.

One hand reaches over to cup his cheek, a pair of soft lips pressing a light kiss to his forehead. When she withdraws, he stirs once more, hazy sleep lifting from his eyes. She smiles again, and the room brightens with sunlight.

"Good morning, Blumiere."


	3. Shadows

A lone, bright flame dances atop a single white candle amid the darkness of the room of one, who sits at his desk, writing. The shadows are at his company, clawing onto the walls surrounding him, mocking him. They tease, they taunt, and, in rare moments, they wait. But he replies in nothing more than the sound of pen scratching away at thick, crinkling papers, breath silent as he continues on.

Rusty old hinges slowly groan behind him, and he stops, pen hanging in the air as he waits.

"Blumiere?"

He breathes in, then continues. His eyes are drooping, threatening to close, and yet he focuses upon each word the ink creates, never once looking away. His voice is dry and rough as he speaks;

"Yes, my dear?"

"Shouldn't you be in bed by this hour?" Worry and concern is laced within her words, wooden boards creaking with every step closer to him. She stops right behind him, waiting for his response.

"I should be asking you the same question, Timpani."

He hears her shift in her spot. "I was feeling a bit... uneasy. Worried, if I'm to be honest." A sigh. "Every time I woke up in the morning I never saw you in bed besides me. Instead, I'd find you here, sleeping on top a pile of papers."

Her hand finds itself on his shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze to the tense, rigid muscle beneath his clothing. She's looking over him, watching as he continues to write, ink flowing from his pen into the fibers below.

No words are spoken after that, his pen filling the gap of silence that has been left between them. The strokes of his hand are slower now compared to before, where the sheets of paper in his journal were at the mercy of his pen, dyed, scribbled, smudged in splotches of deep black. Now, however, the color has begun to fade, dry from their endless work.

His wife frowns. "... Your boss isn't asking you to work overtime again, is he?"

A short, low bark of laughter squeezes through his throat and his hand stills. The corners of his lips tug up to a smile as he straightens his back against the chair, eyes lifting to the little sprout of flame that waved at him.

"No. Ever since you had told him off that day, he hasn't been giving me an overwhelming amount to work with." He sighs, satisfied and amused at the memory that she has given him, and turns to her with a lopsided grin. "It is truly remarkable on how you had rendered him absolutely speechless by the very end, and I still find myself chuckling about it when I remember about it."

She smiles softly at him in the candlelight, pleased with his words. Yet, the flame wavers, and he spots the concern in her eyes. "Is there something troubling you, then?"

He doesn't look at her.

"Blumiere?" She's squeezing his shoulder again, his chest sinking as he breathes. He has to answer. He knows he does. He raises his head to her, lips parting to speak.

But then he sees the lines under her own eyes, how her eyebrows are pulled together as she waits for his words. Guilt weighs down upon his heart as he realizes just how much sleep she's losing for his sake. He turns away from her, his head low as he answers.

"... Yes. There is."

Nothing is said between them. The weight upon his shoulder disappears, the warmth that was once present devoured by the cool air. He misses it.

But then something soft grasps his hand, and he looks back up to see her hand is on his, thumb tracing a slow circle on his skin. She's sitting beside him now, gazing at him with a look that says she knows. She knows.

"It's the nightmares again, isn't it..?"

He stares at the open book before him, a mess of scrawled words on forgotten lines, blurred into a black abyss of faded words. As his eyes trail over the stained hand that continues to hold the very pen that had created this monstrosity, his eyes close, unconsciousness slowly taking him once more.

"I'm afraid so, Timpani. I'm afraid so."

* * *

 **AN** : And here's the end of this drabble! I'm quite proud of this one: it's longer, sets a decent setting, and the communication between the two makes it pretty clear on what's happening. Definitely more angsty than the last one, so I had to change the genre. ;;

 **James Birdsong** \- Thank you for the review! I'm happy to hear that the writing in both drabbles are alright with you, and even happier knowing that you read them, so thank you!


	4. Breakfast

A cracked shell oozes a single, yellow yolk onto heated metal, followed soon after by the transparent liquid that surrounded it. Fingertips covered with residue, she darts towards the sink, rinses, dries, then goes back to work. And the sounds of morning breakfast repeat once more:

 _Sizzle_. **Crack!** _**Pop!**_

She watches her work from where she stands, a spatula held in one hand, the pan in the other. But then a pair of arms are wrapped around her stomach and she yelps, a warm breath of words brushing against her cheek;

"Good morning, my dear."

Her shock morphs into surprise as she glances at him. "Blumiere! You're up quite early today."

His soft laughter rumbles out onto the crook of her neck, a soothing sensation that relaxes her. "I am indeed, surprisingly enough. I suppose it was the delicious scent of your cooking that woke me. Speaking of which," he glances at the contents of the pan and smiles. "I see you're preparing eggs today."

She grins, turning back to her work to flip one of them. "Mhm. We'll be having your favorite for today's breakfast; if I don't happen to burn any of it by accident." A nudge to his side punctuates her words. He chooses to ignore it, instead giving her a puzzled look. Or rather, he tries to, but the glimmer in his eyes say he's anything but, otherwise.

"Oh? And why would you say that?"

"Because," she starts, "as much as I like you holding me while I'm cooking, it tends to be quite distracting," his hold tightens around her in response. She huffs. "—and I'm certain you wouldn't want your food to be overly crispy now, would you?"

"Hmm... I suppose not." And like that, his hold releases her, the absence of his warmth replaced with a bitter cold. He's at her side now, watching her work with his arms crossed. "Isn't there anything I can help you with, though?"

"If by help you mean preparing a steaming pot of tea," she looks up at him, a smile playing on her lips. "—Then yes, there is."

He nods. "Ah, I'll do that, then."

They two fall into silence after that. Little questions or small comments are passed every now and then, like asking where the sugar was, or how something smells good, or if one of them could pass a plate or a spoon. It's comfortable— being able to cook with one another, that is. Most of the time Blumiere would only have so much time to prepare before he leaves for work, and so it usually fell on Timpani to cook breakfast because one: she wakes up earlier than him, and two: she enjoys the little, quick kisses he gives her before going off. It was a worthy reward for her work in her opinion.

But today he's off from work, and so here they are, quietly eating at the table. And then an hour passes, and breakfast is finished quickly enough (considering that it was only made up of eggs, toast and butter of course). They both clean up after themselves, washing the dishes together side by side. He's the first one to break the silence.

"... Timpani?"

"Hmm?" She looks up to see his figure leaning down, his lips pressed softly against her cheek. Oh. Pink dusts her cheeks as he pulls away, gazing down at her with warmth in his smile.

"I love you."

She sighs, her head resting upon his shoulder. The plate she had been washing is lowered into the sink, forgotten for this precious moment. "I love you too, Blumiere."


End file.
